User talk:Fowler&fowler/Archive 24
Photography in museumsMay I suggest you read the following Wikipedia rules and advice about museum photography?: Cheers, पाटलिपुत्र Pat (talk) 11:08, 5 September 2020 (UTC)
You have a long history of spamming dubious images on WP, not to mention sockpuppetry foor all of which you have excuses. Fowler&fowler«Talk» 12:30, 5 September 2020 (UTC)
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@Johnbod: What do you mean by, "If the image does show a model somewhere else, that's a different matter?" Fowler&fowler«Talk» 13:02, 5 September 2020 (UTC)
![]() Your recent editing history shows that you are currently engaged in an edit war; that means that you are repeatedly changing content back to how you think it should be, when you have seen that other editors disagree. To resolve the content dispute, please do not revert or change the edits of others when you are reverted. Instead of reverting, please use the talk page to work toward making a version that represents consensus among editors. The best practice at this stage is to discuss, not edit-war. See the bold, revert, discuss cycle for how this is done. If discussions reach an impasse, you can then post a request for help at a relevant noticeboard or seek dispute resolution. In some cases, you may wish to request temporary page protection. Being involved in an edit war can result in you being blocked from editing—especially if you violate the three-revert rule, which states that an editor must not perform more than three reverts on a single page within a 24-hour period. Undoing another editor's work—whether in whole or in part, whether involving the same or different material each time—counts as a revert. Also keep in mind that while violating the three-revert rule often leads to a block, you can still be blocked for edit warring—even if you do not violate the three-revert rule—should your behavior indicate that you intend to continue reverting repeatedly. पाटलिपुत्र Pat (talk) 13:18, 5 September 2020 (UTC)
Not a threat, just the plain truth. If you continue to make xenophobic and Hindu majoritarian comments on Talk:India, I will take you to ANI. Fowler&fowler«Talk» 14:14, 5 September 2020 (UTC)
Disambiguation link notification for September 13An automated process has detected that when you recently edited Akshay Kumar, you added a link pointing to the disambiguation page Windsor. (Opt-out instructions.) --DPL bot (talk) 09:36, 13 September 2020 (UTC) A kitten for you!![]() Boasting or not, managing articles for 13 years is praiseworthy. This kitten will help you out Fylindfotberserk (talk) 16:54, 10 September 2020 (UTC)
Manilal DwivediHi Fowler. Sorry to bother you again. I know you are super busy right now. I am waiting for your response at Manilal Dwivedi. If you could engage in it, It would be grate help for article. Thanks. --Gazal world (talk) 11:39, 15 September 2020 (UTC) Sidney GreenbaumPut this on my talk page but then thought maybe I should have put it on yours, not sure how it's supposed to work. Here is the relevant quote from the DNB: "Greenbaum was a very private, intensely lonely, and in some respects tragic person, generous to his friends but awkward in female company and quite lacking in social graces. Unusually for an Orthodox Jew, he never married. He was at his best when entertaining family and colleagues. While drinking a glass of whisky and smoking a cigar he would sit in his favourite chair, talking to his guests. Towards the end of his life he suffered increasingly from ill health. In 1990 Greenbaum resigned the Quain chair at University College following his conviction in London of a number of charges of sexual assault on young boys. He was able to continue directing the Survey of English Usage. On 28 May 1996, while delivering a lecture at Moscow University, he died of heart failure." Do let me know if you want me to post the pdf of the whole article anywhere. Also very happy to forego anonymity in the interest of establishing bona fides if that helps. Erithrocyte (talk) 20:31, 17 September 2020 (UTC)
Thanks for your response. I have spoken to one of the co-authors of the DNB article this evening who confirms that: "in spite of Greenbaum having made two public court appearances, no newspaper ever reported his conviction". He further commented: "this was very typical in England in the 1990s, because there often was a desire not to rock the establishment boat and it was often seen as somewhat distasteful to discuss paedophilia". He would also be willing to be contacted about this and I can supply an email address and other contact details if needed. Erithrocyte (talk) 20:46, 17 September 2020 (UTC)
Thanks. This is not to harass, but just to add an additional source that's just come to my attention: Pages 408-9 of the second edition of Professor Geoffrey Alderman's book Modern British Jewry (OUP, 1998): BEGINS Perhaps most dramatic, and sad, is the irrefutable evidence of the sexual abuse of Jewish children. Norwood Child Care has reported annual increases in the instances of child abuse brought to its attention.[1] It is true that these increases may simply reflect greater public awareness but, if so, the implication must be that the problem is of longer standing than some had optimistically supposed. It is within the orthodox communities that the problem is at its most intractable, partly because extraordinary steps are taken to conceal its existence. In 1991 a near-riot occurred in Stamford Hill, north London, after it had emerged that a sectarian orthodox family had reported to the police allegations of child abuse against two sectarian orthodox men.[2] The previous year (August 1990), the eminent scholar of the English language, and Jews’ College alumnus, Professor Sidney Greenbaum (1929 – 1996) had pleaded guilty at Hendon Magistrate’s Court to three charges of indecent assault on young boys; his elegantly crafted obituary in the Jewish Chronicle made no mention of this recorded and verifiable fact.[3] [1] Baker, The Jewish Woman in Contemporary Society, 181. [2] JC, 5 July 1991, 18; 2 August, 1, 5, 36; 9 August, 6; The Times, 12 August 1991, 6; JT, 15 August 1991, 6. One of the defendants was acquitted, the other was convicted of indecent assault and gaoled, but released on appeal. [3] JC, 14 June 1996, 25. At the time of his disgrace Greenbaum held the prestigious Quain Chair of English Language & Literature at University College London. He was, it transpired, a long-time abuser, whose paedophile activities were well-known within his circle of orthodox friends in north London. In October 1996 the JC reported the case of the Reverend Anthony Dee, formerly minister to Jewish congregations in Portsmouth and Belfast, who later pleaded guilty to ten charges of indecent assault on young girls and a boy: JC, 18 Oct. 1996, 60; 24 Jan. 1997, 1-2; Belfast Newsletter, 18 Jan. 1997, 5. Erithrocyte (talk) 21:59, 17 September 2020 (UTC) Thank you for your help and for taking the time to research this to put in the change. I understand the reasons for the meticulous care and quotation marks around the quotes from the ONDB, and it's great to have the truth up in any form. I wonder if you'd have time - and interest - in helping me work out what sources I'd need to get this in as a plain statement of fact? I'm pretty sure that I can get whatever sources would be required with a bit of time and effort and - as you may have guessed - it's something I'm personally motivated to see addressed. And I'm very aware there are victims out there who don't have the ability, emotionally or otherwise, to do this. If you're aware of the Jimmy Saville case, you'll know how common it was at the time for both institutions and the media to be involved in cover-ups - or something similar, a sort of "let's just not talk about this" which means there are no hard news sources from the time and any discussion at all will be hard to find, but I expect I can prompt new journalistic pieces if that's what's needed, or look into finding the original court documents and getting them put online. It occurs to me also that as the UK is now fairly committed to exposing cover-ups of historic child sexual abuse, it would be very useful for there to be an easily accessible online register of these cases that victims can point to and say: "this happened to me, it's here for anyone to see". That's not a Wikipedia issue, but something I'm intending to pursue. Erithrocyte (talk) 18:47, 20 September 2020 (UTC)
Thank you for your thoughts here, they're very helpful. I am pretty sure I can work on this and sort it out. It might take a year or two, but it's the sort of case that the British media really ought to be talking about, and I think I'm in a position to work to make this happen. For one thing, it continues to be very relevant and always timely to ensure the British media understand the role played by "just not really doing journalism about a distasteful subject" and "just upholding old establishment positions" has contributed to eg Greenbaum's extensive academic career being remembered 25 years after his death but not his sexual assaults. And there must be many more such cases out there. So, watch this space. As ever, entirely willing to say who I am, but I think it'll become evident in time. Oh, question: am I free to insert a suitable reference when I have one, or should I come and discuss that with you first? Erithrocyte (talk) 20:06, 24 September 2020 (UTC) Checking inHi — Gazal world asked me to take another look at Manilal Dwivedi. I see there’s a discussion of adding some background material about the Indian educational system at the time, and reading through it I can see the relevance, though I wonder if perhaps it’s a bit long. However, I can’t judge its accuracy and I don’t have access to the sources you cited in the article Gazal world is drawing from. I see you’re taking a break until some time in October in order to work on some non-WP writing. Do you know if or when you might be able to return to Manilal? Gazal world has asked me to take another look, but if you think you’ll be able to get back to it in the next month or so I think that would be better for the article, otherwise I’ll be copy editing material I’m not able to judge the correctness of. Mike Christie (talk - contribs - library) 11:14, 26 September 2020 (UTC)
October 2020This is regarding the happenings on Sanskrit page. The action started with your large deletion of text on the page [diff]. While I was perplexed by such a large deletion without any WP:CONSENSUS in the same sense of frustration that you expressed [talkpage], I posted the vandalism template on your user page. Sorry I was unaware about the WP:DTTR rule. Besides on a side point, what do you intend to achieve at the end state on the Sanskrit page? Is your intent of editing [diff] to delete all references of India or Indian Subcontinent or Ancient Indian Subcontinent on the Sanskrit page? If that is so what would be the position of over a dozen Indic languages which have over 70% influence from Sanskrit vocabulary, phonology, morphology, and grammar - would they in your opinion become South Asian languages and not Indic languages? Sanskrit hymns and recitals are chanted every day by millions of Indians. This hymn from Vedas has been viewed by over 40 million people [youtube]. What would happen to the faith of the millions who believe Sanskrit as their language used in rituals? I am interested to know what is your desired outcome on Sanskrit page. Jaykul72 (talk) 08:11, 7 October 2020 (UTC)
Your map of the Kashmir Region and the boundary line between Gilgit-Baltistan and Azad KashmirHi, Fowler&fowler, I was glad to see your revised version of the CIA map Kashmir Region. Will you be revising that map again anytime soon to change North-West Frontier Province to Khyber Pakhtunkhwa? If you will, you might also move the words Ladakh and (union territory) a little further to the right to place them more in the center of that territory and to better separate the words (union territory) from the name Jammu and Kashmir. I have a question about the present territorial extent of AJK's Neelum District to which I hope you can provide an answer or, if not, perhaps direct me to someone who can. On maps that are presently available on the Internet, I have noticed two different territorial configurations for the Neelum District. The difference lies in just how far eastward that district extends. Since the map that is presently shown on the AJK government web site shows the Neelum District with a lesser eastward extent than other maps on the Internet, it raises the question as to whether the easternmost portion of that district may have been detached at some point in time and added to the Astore District of Gilgit-Baltistan. That easternmost area includes the villages Kamri, Minimarg, and Domel and the lakes Crystal Lake and Rainbow Lake. On some web sites, those five features are described as being located in the Neelum District of AJK, but on other web sites, they are, instead, described as being located in the Astore District of Gilgit-Baltistan. If the easternmost portion of the Neelum District was, in fact, detached from that district and added to the Astore District of Gilgit-Baltistan some years ago, I would very much like to know just when and why that particular change was made. Atelerixia (talk) 06:05, 9 October 2020 (UTC) Disambiguation link notification for October 10An automated process has detected that when you recently edited Sanskrit, you added a link pointing to the disambiguation page Dandin. (Opt-out instructions.) --DPL bot (talk) 06:21, 10 October 2020 (UTC) संस्कृतम्त्वं हि वद - अनुस्वारस्य प्रयोगः कथं भविष्यति? — Preceding unsigned comment added by संस्कृतम् (talk • contribs) 20:49, 11 October 2020 (UTC)
Thank you for your post. I see the तं and तम् endings changing in light of the letter following. I can also see that the standalone should probably be तम् but I remain troubled that in the dictionary of V. S. Apte (one of the great lexicographers of Sanskrit and late professor at Ferguson College Poona) the standalone is तं, not तम् (See here: -तं Refined or highly polished language ... the Sanskrit language etc" Why do you think he has chosen तं? I am asking out of curiosity, not to disrespect your wisdom. The self-help books are unfortunately useless for Wikipedia citing purposes, though they have already helped me (for which you have my thanks). That is my dilemma here. As for the adjectival use, we are talking about a dead or extinct language, no matter what the current ideology is about its reconstruction. The earliest reference is in the Sundarkand of Valmikis Ramayan which I now reference in the lead sentence. It is Hanuman brooding and he uses "sanskritaam vaacham." Before that time (ca 500 to 100 BCE there was no reference to "sanskrit"; there is none in Panini) the standalone doesn't appear until 700–800 CE, and the native speakers are gone by 1350 CE. So the adjectival use is clearly of greater importance than the nominative historically. I have to put something there. I can put "sanskrit vaach" or some version you think is correct, but the attributive verb/adjective has precedence here historically. Please help me with what combination form to use. Tthanks for your help. Fowler&fowler«Talk» 13:03, 12 October 2020 (UTC) British Raj flagsSir my senior in charge User:NS Dibyojyoti is retired now but he told me to left you a message on the article. The raj has flag but not that red ensign flag. We could probably provide star of india and UK flag in order to secure it. So I'm edited that please see it and review it.🇮🇳DRCNSINDIA (talk) 11:43, 20 October 2020 (UTC) Disambiguation link notification for October 23An automated process has detected that when you recently edited Women in India, you added a link pointing to the disambiguation page Manu. (Opt-out instructions.) --DPL bot (talk) 06:12, 23 October 2020 (UTC) Help meI have been trying to make changes in Udal of Mahoba, Alha and Banaphar since few days, but obviously English administrators cannot understand Hindi language, that's why I need help of any administrator who understands hindi language. So can you please help me. If you can than please see my reliable sources for making changes in Talk:Udal of Mahoba Sumit banaphar (talk) 18:29, 28 October 2020 (UTC) Stopping nowSorry, just saw your message ... stopping now ... hope I didn't make a worse mess ... left a message on talk of one other thing that needs to be fixed (an inline citation). Bst, SandyGeorgia (Talk) 16:04, 28 October 2020 (UTC)
Talk:KashmirHi, I learnt that you are going for a vaccation. Well enjoy your days and best of luck. But before you go, please point us to a direction at Talk:Kashmir as during your leave its going to be a mess again. MehrajMir (talk) 12:00, 28 October 2020 (UTC)
Hi Fowler, if you get a chance would appreciate your eyes on this, which is at FAC. Feedback and insight gratefully appreciated. Ceoil (talk) 20:51, 25 October 2020 (UTC)
Need helping with editingHi! We've interacted before regarding edited content on the "women in india" wikipedia page. I'm hear to ask for your help regarding WP:NOR. Is there a way to use original research without violating any rules? Let me knowKrao212 (talk) 03:13, 5 November 2020 (UTC)
I want to allow the vector alternative of the CIA Kashmir mapI have gone through the edit history of Ladakh and saw that you said in an edit summary that only the CIA Kashmir map (File:Kashmir Region November 2019.jpg) is allowed per consensus among India, Pakistan and China WikiProjects. But I want to use the vector alternative (File:Kashmir map.svg) of the map that I have updated and made multiple locator maps from it. But where to form consensus for this? --Soumya-8974 talk contribs subpages 06:42, 21 November 2020 (UTC)
ArbCom 2020 Elections voter messageANI
A kitten for you!![]() I love all the kitty and creature photos on your talk page! I'm having a bleck day today, not feeling too well, and they brought me smiles today. Missvain (talk) 16:55, 29 November 2020 (UTC)
India and good faithFowler, I understand the frustration, and have clashed elsewhere with Femke and Emsmile on exactly the same topic, but they are on Talk:India in good faith. I feel it would be productive and conducive to the conversation to remove, at the very least, that last part of your post. There are other editors around, and plenty of time to edit and fix the India article later if need be. Certainly, the India talk page is not where I would want to spend my vacation. Best, CMD (talk) 11:20, 30 November 2020 (UTC)
India and FAR...As an aside, I have nothing to do with FAR - I have enough with FAC and TFA. -- Ealdgyth (talk) 14:09, 30 November 2020 (UTC)
Picture December 1, 2020
From E. B. White, "Geese," in Essays of E. B. White, New York: Harper & Row, 1971. Copied out by Fowler&fowler«Talk» 14:07, 1 December 2020 (UTC) "Jammu and Kashmir area" listed at Redirects for discussion
Picture December 2, 2020"... The other three are gifties that Mrs. Campbell and myself would be blithe of your acceptance. The first which is round, will likely please ye best at the first off-go; but, O Davie, laddie, it's but a drop of water in the sea; it'll help you but a step, and vanish like the morning. The second, which is flat and square and written upon, will stand by you through life like a good staff for the road, and a good pillow for your head in sickness. And as for the last which is cubical, that'll see you, it's my prayerful wish, into a better land." With that he got upon his feet, took off his hat, and prayed a little while aloud, and in affecting terms, for a young man setting out into the world; then suddenly took me in his arms and embraced me very hard; then held me at arm's length, looking at me with his face all working with sorrow; and then whipped about, and crying good-bye to me, set off backward by the way that we had come ... And I sat down on the boulder the good man had just left, and opened the parcel to see the nature of my gifts. That which he had called cubical, I had never had much doubt of; sure enough it was a little Bible, to carry in a plaidneuk. That which he had called round, I found to be a shilling piece; and the third, which was to help me so wonderfully both in health and sickness all the days of my life was a little piece of coarse yellow paper, written upon thus in red ink:—
And then in the minister's own hand was added:
To be sure, I laughed over this; but it was rather tremulous laughter; and I was glad to get my bundle on my staff's end and set out over the ford and up the hill upon the farther side; till, just as I came on the green drove-road running wide through the heather, I took my last look of Kirk Essendean, the trees about the manse, and the big rowans in the kirkyard where my father and mother lay. From Robert Louis Stevenson, Kidnapped, serialized in Young Folks, 1 May–31 July 1886. Copied out by Fowler&fowler«Talk» 18:23, 2 December 2020 (UTC) Picture December 3, 2020I took a long walk north of the town, out into the pastures where the land was so rough that it had never been ploughed up, and the long red grass of early times still grew shaggy over the draws and hillocks. Out there I felt at home again. Overhead the sky was that indescribable blue of autumn; bright and shadowless, hard as enamel. To the south I could see the dun-shaded river bluffs that used to look so big to me, and all about stretched drying cornfields, of the pale-gold color I remembered so well. Russian thistles were blowing across the uplands and piling against the wire fences like barricades. Along the cattle-paths the plumes of goldenrod were already fading into sun-warmed velvet, grey with gold threads in it. I had escaped from the curious depression that hangs over little towns, and my mind was full of pleasant things; ... As I wandered over those rough pastures, I had the good luck to stumble upon a bit of the first road that went from Black Hawk out to the north country; to my grandfather's farm, and on to the Shimerdas' and to the Norwegian settlement. Everywhere else it had been ploughed under when the highways were surveyed; this half-mile or so within the pasture fence was all that was left of that old road which used to run like a wild thing across the open prairie, clinging to the high places and circling and doubling like a rabbit before hounds. On the level land the tracks had almost disappeared — were mere shadings in the grass, and a stranger would not have noticed them. But wherever the road had crossed a draw, it was easy to find. The rains had made channels of the wheel-ruts and washed them so deeply that the sod had never healed over them. They looked like gashes torn by a grizzly's claws, on the slopes where the farm-wagons used to lurch up out of the hollows with a pull that brought curling muscles on the smooth hips of the horses. I sat down and watched the haystacks turn rosy in the slanting sunlight. From Willa Cather, My Ántonia, Boston, Mass: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1918, copied out by Fowler&fowler«Talk» 12:23, 3 December 2020 (UTC) Picture December 4, 2020I dreamed I was standing on a pier in a shadowy group of unescorted children who may or may not have been waiting to be evacuated. The pier was down in Port Newark, but the Port Newark of some fifty years ago, where I had been taken by my father and my Uncle Ed to see the ships anchored in the bay that opened in the distance to the Statue of Liberty and the Atlantic. It was always a surprise to me, as a small child, to be reminded that Newark was a coastal city, since the port was beyond the swamplands, on the far side of the new Newark airstrip and remote from life in the neighborhoods. To be taken down to the harbor and on to the wharves to look up at the ships and out beyond to the bay was to be put in touch momentarily with a geographical vastness that you couldn't imagine while playing stoop ball with your little pals on our cozy, clannish street of two-and-a-half-family houses. In the dream, a boat, a medium-size, heavily armored, battle-gray boat, some sort of old American warship stripped of its armaments and wholly disabled, floated imperceptibly toward the shore. I was expecting my father to be on the ship, somehow to be among the crew, but there was no life on board and no sign anywhere of anyone in command. The dead-silent picture, a portrait of the aftermath of a disaster, was frightening and eerie: a ghostly hulk of a ship, cleared by some catastrophe of all living things, aiming toward the shore with only the current to guide it, and we on the pier who may or may not have been children gathered together to be evacuated. The mood was heartbreaking in exactly the same way it had been when I was twelve and, only weeks before the triumph of V-E Day, President Roosevelt died of a cerebral hemorrhage. Draped in black bunting, the train moving F.D.R.'s casket up from Washington to Hyde Park had passed with lumbering solemnity through the bereaved crowd squeezed in beside the tracks downtown—during those silent seconds on its journey north, consecrating even workaday Newark. Ultimately the dream became unbearable and I woke up, despondent and frightened and sad—whereupon I understood that it wasn't that my father was aboard the ship but that my father was the ship. ... To have dreamed of my father's death on the eve of (his) second MRI wasn't at all remarkable, nor, really, was the incarnation that the dream had worked upon his body. I lay in bed till it was light, thinking of all the family history compressed into that snippet of silent dream-film: just about every major theme of his life was encapsulated there, everything of significance to both of us, starting with his immigrant parents' transatlantic crossing in steerage, extending to his grueling campaign to get ahead, the battle to make good against the many obstructive forces—as a poor boy robbed of serious schooling, as a Jewish working man in the Gentile insurance colossus—and ending with his transformation, by the brain tumor, into an enfeebled wreck. The defunct warship drifting blindly into shore ... this is not a picture of my father, at the end of his life, that my wide-awake mind, with its resistance to plaintive metaphor and poetized analogy, was ever likely to have licensed.
User noticeIt says "I will be gone until mid-February 2021. I will not be logging in at all during this time." given your recent plethora of edits, isn't it worth updating this to reflect reality? The Rambling Man (Hands! Face! Space!!!!) 23:34, 29 November 2020 (UTC)
Picture December 5, 2020By this time, the peacock had gathered its courage and was beginning to move slowly, with little swaying and jerking motions, into the kitchen. Its head was erect but at an angle, its red eyes fixed on us. Its crest, a little sprig of feathers, stood a few inches over its head. Plumes rose from its tail. The bird stopped a few feet away from the table and looked us over. "They don't call them birds of paradise for nothing," Bud said. Fran didn't look up. She was giving all her attention to the baby. She'd begun to patty-cake with it, which pleased the baby somewhat. I mean, at least the thing had stopped fussing. She brought it up to her neck and whispered something into its ear. "Now," she said, "don't tell anyone what I said." The baby stared at her with its pop eyes. Then it reached and got itself a baby handful of Fran's blond hair. The peacock stepped closer to the table. None of us said anything. We just sat still. Baby Harold saw the bird. It let go of Fran's hair and stood up on her lap. It pointed its fat fingers at the bird. It jumped up and down and made noises. The peacock walked quickly around the table and went for the baby. It ran its long neck across the baby's legs. It pushed its beak under the baby's pajama top and shook its stiff neck back and forth. The baby laughed and kicked its feet. Scooting onto its back, the baby worked its way over Fran's knees and down onto the floor. The peacock kept pushing against the baby, as if it was a game they were playing. Fran held the baby against her legs while the baby strained forward. "I just don't believe this," she said. "That peacock is crazy, that's what," Bud said. "Damn bird doesn't know it's a bird, that's its major trouble." Olla grinned and showed her teeth again. She looked over at Bud. Bud pushed his chair away from the table and nodded. ... Bud picked up the baby and swung him over his head until Harold shrieked. The peacock ruffled its feathers and watched. Fran shook her head again. She smoothed out her dress where the baby had been. Olla picked up her fork and was working at some lima beans on her plate. Bud shifted the baby onto his hip and said, "There's pie and coffee yet." That evening at Bud and Olla's was special. I knew it was special. That evening I felt good about almost everything in my life. I couldn't wait to be alone with Fran to talk to her about what I was feeling. I made a wish that evening. Sitting there at the table, I closed my eyes for a minute and thought hard. What I wished for was that I'd never forget or otherwise let go of that evening. That's one wish of mine that came true. And it was bad luck for me that it did. But, of course, I couldn't know that then. "What are you thinking about, Jack?" Bud said to me. "I'm just thinking, " I said. I grinned at him. "A penny," Olla said. I just grinned some more and shook my head.
Picture December 6, 2020I was one day sitting upstairs, as usual, hearing the children their English lessons, and at the same time turning a silk dress for madame, when she came sauntering into the room with that absorbed air, and brow of hard thought she sometimes wore, which made her look so little genial. Dropping into a seat opposite mine, she remained some minutes silent. Désirée, the eldest girl, was reading to me some little essay of Mrs. Barbauld's, and I was making her translate currently from English to French as she proceeded, by way of ascertaining that she comprehended what she read: madame listened. Presently without preface or prelude, she said, almost in the tone of one making an accusation, "Meess, in England you were a governess." "No madame," said I smiling, "you are mistaken." "Is this your first essay at teaching—this attempt with my children?" I assured her it was. Again she became silent; but looking up, as I took a pin from the cushion, I found myself an object of study: she held me under her eye; she seemed turning me round in her thoughts—measuring my fitness for a purpose, weighing my value in a plan. Madame had ere this, scrutinized all I had, and I believe she esteemed herself cognizant of much that I was; but from that day, for the space of about a fortnight, she tried me by new tests. She listened at the nursery door when I was shut in with the children; she followed me at a cautious distance when I walked out with them, stealing within ear-shot whenever the trees of park or boulevard afforded a sufficient screen: a strict preliminary process having thus been observed, she made a move forward. One morning, coming on me abruptly, and with the semblance of hurry, she said she found herself placed in a little dilemma. Mr. Wilson, the English master, had failed to come at this hour; she feared he was ill; the pupils were waiting in classe; there was no one to give a lesson; should I, for once, object to giving a short dictation exercise, just that the pupils might not have to say they missed their English lesson? "In classe, madame?" I asked. "Yes, in classe: in the second division." "Where there are sixty pupils," said I; for I knew the number, and with my usual base habit of cowardice, I shrunk into my sloth, like a snail into its shell, and alleged incapacity and impracticability as a pretext to escape action. If left to myself, I should infallibly have let this chance slip. Inadventurous, unstirred by impulses of practical ambition, I was capable of sitting twenty years teaching infants the hornbook, turning silk dresses, and making children's frocks. Not that my true contentment dignified this infatuated resignation: my work had neither charm for my taste, nor hold on my interest; but ... the negation of suffering was the nearest approach to happiness I expected to know. ... "Come," said madame, as I stooped more busily than ever over the cutting out of a child's pinafore, "leave that work." "But Fifine wants it, madame." "Fifine must want it, then, for I want you." And as Madame Beck did really want and was resolved to have me—as she had long been dissatisfied with the English master, with his shortcomings in punctuality, and his careless method of tuition—as too, she did not lack resolution and practical activity, whether I lacked them or not—she without more ado, made me relinquish thimble and needle; my hand was taken into hers, and I was conducted down stairs.
Picture December 7, 2020![]() I took out my knife, opened it, wiped off the blade and pared off the dirty outside surface of the cheese. Gavuzzi handed me the basin of macaroni. "Start in to eat, Tenente." "No," I said. "Put it on the floor. We'll all eat." "There are no forks." "What the hell," I said in English. I cut the cheese into pieces and laid them on the macaroni. "Sit down to it," I said. They sat down and waited. I put thumb and fingers into the macaroni and lifted. A mass loosened. "Lift it high, Tenente." I lifted it to arm's length and the strands cleared. I lowered it into the mouth, sucked and snapped in the ends, and chewed, then took a bite of the cheese, chewed, and then a drink of the wine ... They were all eating, holding their chins close over the basin, tipping their heads back, sucking in the ends. I took another mouthful and some cheese and a rinse of wine. Something landed outside that shook the earth. "Four hundred twenty or minnenwerfer," Gavuzzi said. "There aren't any four hundred twenties in the mountains," I said ... We went on eating. There was a cough, a noise like a railway engine starting and then an explosion that shook the earth again. "This isn't a deep dugout," Passini said. "That was a big trench mortar." "Yes, sir." I ate the end of my piece of cheese and took a swallow of the wine. Through the other noise I heard a cough, then came the chuh-chuh-chuh-chuh — then there was a flash, as when a blast-furnace door is swung open, and a roar that started white and went red and on and on in a rushing wind. From Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms, New York: Scribner, 1929, copied out by Fowler&fowler«Talk» 16:01, 7 December 2020 (UTC) Picture December 9, 2020Annie and Paul and Arthur loved winter evenings, when it was not wet. They stayed indoors till the colliers were all gone home, till it was thick dark, and the street would be deserted. Then they tied their scarves around their necks, for they scorned overcoats, as all the colliers' children did, and went out. The entry was very dark, and at the end the whole great night opened out, in a hollow, with a little tangle of lights below where Minton pit lay, and another far away opposite for Selby. The farthest tiny lights seemed to stretch out the darkness for ever. The children looked anxiously down the road at the one lamp-post, which stood at the end of the field path. If the little, luminous space were deserted, the two boys felt genuine desolation. They stood with their hands in their pockets under the lamp, turning their backs on the night, quite miserable, watching the dark houses. Suddenly a pinafore under a short skirt was seen, and a long-legged girl came flying up. "Where's Billy Pillins an' your Annie an' Eddie Dakin?" "I don't know." But it did not matter so much—there were three now. They set up a game round the lamp-post, till the others rushed up, yelling. Then the play went fast and furious. There was only this one lamp-post. Behind was the scoop of darkness, as if all the night was there. In front, another wide, dark way opened over the hill brow. Occasionally somebody came out of this way and went into the field down the path. In a dozen yards the night swallowed them. The children played on. ... Mrs Morel, going into her parlour, would hear the children singing away:
They sounded so perfectly absorbed in the game as their voices came out of the night, that they had the feel of wild creatures singing. It stirred the mother, and she understood when they came in at eight o'clock, ruddy, with brilliant eyes, and quick, passionate speech. They all loved the Scargill Street house for its openness, for the great scallop of the world it had in view. On summer evenings the women would stand against the field fence, gossiping, facing the west, watching the sunsets flare quickly out, till the Derbyshire hills ridged across the crimson far away, like the black crest of a newt. From D. H. Lawrence, Sons and Lovers, London: Gerald Duckworth and Company Ltd, 1913, copied out by Fowler&fowler«Talk» 14:43, 9 December 2020 (UTC) Picture December 10, 2020Perhaps it was because teaching came naturally to Mr Stelling, that he set about it with that uniformity of method and independence of circumstances, which distinguish the actions of animals understood to be under the immediate teachings of nature. Mr Broderip's amiable beaver, as that charming naturalist tells us, busied himself as earnestly in constructing a dam, in a room up three pair of stairs in London, as if he had been laying his foundation in a stream or lake in Upper Canada. It was "Binny's" function to build: the absence of water or of possible progeny was an accident for which he was not accountable. With the same unerring instinct Mr Stelling set to work at his natural method of instilling the Eton Grammar and Euclid into the mind of Tom Tulliver. This, he considered, was the only basis of solid instruction: all other means of education were mere charlatanism, and could produce nothing better than smatterers. Fixed on this firm basis, a man might observe the display of various or special knowledge made by irregularly educated people with a pitying smile: all that sort of thing was very well, but it was impossible these people could form sound opinions. In holding this conviction Mr Stelling was not biased, as some tutors have been, by the excessive accuracy or extent of this own scholarship; and as to his views about Euclid, no opinion could have been freer than personal partiality. Mr Stelling was very far from being led astray by enthusiasm, either religious or intellectual; on the other hand he had no secret belief that everything was humbug. He thought religion was a very excellent thing, and Aristotle's great authority, and deaneries and prebends useful institutions, and Great Britain the providential bulwark of Protestantism, and faith in the unseen a great support to afflicted minds: he believed in all these things, as a Swiss hotel-keeper believes in the beauty of the scenery around him, and in the pleasure it gives to artistic visitors ... He very soon set down poor Tom as a thoroughly stupid lad; for though by hard labour he could get particular declensions into his brain, any thing so abstract as the relation between cases and terminations could by no means get such a lodgment there as to enable him to recognize a chance genitive or dative. This struck Mr. Stelling as something more than natural stupidity; he suspected obstinacy, or, at any rate, indifference, and lectured Tom severely on his want of thorough application. “You feel no interest in what you're doing, sir,” Mr. Stelling would say, and the reproach was painfully true. Tom had never found any difficulty in discerning a pointer from a setter when once he had been told the distinction, and his perceptive powers were not at all deficient. I fancy they were quite as strong as those of the Rev. Mr. Stelling; for Tom could predict with accuracy what number of horses were cantering behind him, he could throw a stone right into the centre of a given ripple, he could guess to a fraction how many lengths of his stick it would take to reach across the playground, and could draw almost perfect squares on his slate without any measurement. But Mr. Stelling took no note of these things: he only observed that Tom's faculties failed him before the abstractions hideously symbolized to him in the pages of the Eton Grammar, and that he was in a state bordering on idiocy with regard to the demonstration that two given triangles must be equal—though he could discern with great promptitude and certainty the fact that they were equal. Whence Mr. Stelling concluded that Tom's brain, being peculiarly impervious to etymology and demonstrations, was peculiarly in need of being ploughed and harrowed by these patent implements ... From George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss, Edinburgh and London: William Blackwood and Sons, 1860, copied out by Fowler&fowler«Talk» 14:38, 10 December 2020 (UTC) Picture December 13, 2020Her mother's knuckles were her knuckles, her mother's veins were her veins, her mother's lap was her second heaven, her mother's forehead a copybook onto which she traced A B C D, her mother's body was a recess that she would wander inside forever and ever, a sepulcher growing deeper and deeper. When she saw other people, especially her pretty older sister, she would simply wave from that safe place, she would not budge, she would not be lured out. Her father took a hatchet to her mother and threatened that he would split open the head of her. The child watched through the kitchen window, because this debacle took place on a hillock under the three beech trees where the clothesline stretched, then sagged. The mother had been hanging four sheets that morning, two off each bed. ... the mother said that if he did so, there was a place for him. That place was the lunatic asylum. It was twenty or thirty miles away, a big gray edifice, men and women lumped in together, some in straitjackets, some in padded cells, some blindfolded because of having sacks thrown over their heads, some strapped across the chest to quell and impede them. ... Her father did not go there. He went off on a batter and then went to a monastery, and then was brought home and shook in the bed chair for five days, eating bread and milk and asking who would convey him over the fields, until he saw his yearlings, and when no one volunteered to, it fell to her because she was the youngest. Over in the fields he patted the yearlings and said soppy things that he'd never say indoors, or to a human, and he cried and said he'd never touch a drop again, and there was a dribble on his pewter-brown mustache that was the remains of the mush he had been eating, and the yearling herself became fidgety and fretful as if she might bolt ... The girl and her mother took walks on Sundays—strolls, picked blackberries, consulted them for worms, made preserve, and slept side by side, entwined like twigs of trees or the ends of the sugar tongs. When she wakened and found that her mother had got up and was already mixing meals for the hens or stirabout for the young pigs, she hurried down, carrying her clothes under her arm, ... Always an egg for breakfast. An egg a day and she would grow strong. Her mother never ate an egg but topped the girl's egg and fed her it off the tarnished eggy spoon and gave her little sups of tea with which to wash down. She had her own mug, red enamel and with not a chip. The girl kept looking back as she went down the drive for school, and as time went on, she mastered the knack of walking backward to be able to look all the longer, look at the aproned figure waving or holding up a potato pounder or colander, of whatever happened to be in her hand. From Edna O'Brien, "A Rose in the Heart of New York," The New Yorker, 1978, copied out by Fowler&fowler«Talk» 12:10, 13 December 2020 (UTC) KashmirisCan you have a look at this? Also these changes. - Fylindfotberserk (talk) 16:35, 20 December 2020 (UTC) Best wishes for the holidays
Picture December 24, 2020The world of dew is Kobayashi Issa (1763–1847), copied by Fowler&fowler«Talk» 17:43, 24 December 2020 (UTC) Greetings of the season
Merry Christmas!
Natalis soli invicto!
Picture December 25, 2020When we got the ham home, my mother immediately stripped off the white paper and the string in the middle of our chipped white-enameled kitchen table. There it lay, exuding heavenly perfumes—proud arrogant and regal. It had a dark, smoked, leathery skin, which my mother carefully peeled off with her sharpened bread knife. Then the old man, the only one who could lift the ham without straining a gut, placed it in the big dark-blue oval pot that was used only for hams. My mother then covered the ham with water, and pushed it onto the big burner and turned up the gas until it boiled. It just sat there on the stove and bubbled away for nearly two hours, filling the house with a smell that was so luscious, so powerful as to have erotic overtones. The old man paced back and forth, occasionally lifting the lid and prodding the ham with a fork, inhaling deeply. The ham frenzy was upon him. From Jean Shepherd, Wanda Hickey's Night of Golden Memories, New York: Doubleday, 1969, copied out by Fowler&fowler«Talk» 16:37, 25 December 2020 (UTC) Best wishes for the holidays
Notice of edit warring noticeboard discussion
Picture December 30, 2020Oft on a plat of rising ground, From John Milton, Il penseroso in Odes, Pastorals, and Masques (General Editor: J. B. Broadbent), Cambridge Milton for Schools and Colleges, Cambridge University Press, 1975, copied out by Fowler&fowler«Talk» 13:15, 30 December 2020 (UTC) Picture December 31, 2020![]() I went out to the hazel wood, When I had laid it on the floor Though I am old with wandering From W. B. Yeats, The Song of Wandering Aengus, 1899, copied out by Fowler&fowler«Talk» 15:04, 30 December 2020 (UTC) Happy New Year 2021Hi Fowler&fowler, hope you would be fine, Wishing you Happy New Year 2021. :) |
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